


Imagine: Castiel realizing you get jealous and worked up when a waitress flirts with him.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [29]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Humor, Jealousy, Protective Dean Winchester, Suggestive Themes, Winchester Sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 18:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13910163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Sister!Winchester Reader





	Imagine: Castiel realizing you get jealous and worked up when a waitress flirts with him.

The waitress leans, no, practically _drapes_ her ample and, you’re certain, push-up bra accentuated cleavage on the angel’s shoulder – _your_ angel’s shoulder – when she pours his coffee. You grit your teeth, the infuriated growl vibrating in your throat audible only to you and the obviously oblivious angel.

Unaffected by her advances, he tilts his chin to offer the trollop a polite murmured, “Thank you.”

“Anything else you need honey, you just _call_.” She winks and stoops again, this time thrusting her bouncing boobs right into his stupefied face, to slide a slip of paper beneath the saucer with her number boldly scribbled in crimson ink and accented with a nauseatingly plump double heart.

“Yeah right, _honey_ ,” you hiss under your breath.

Cas casts you quick a confused glance.

Squeezing his arm, fingers lingering too long, she flashes him a sultry fire-engine red painted smile and departs.

Snickering to yourself over the imperfect splash of stray lipstick staining her otherwise blinding bright white teeth, you avoid the angel’s questioning blues in favor of scowling at the admittedly voluptuous swagger of her hips as she saunters away.

Catching your jealous glower, Dean smirks into his mug as he takes a sip. He finds it amusing you think the angel has eyes for anyone other than you. Especially since he has already informed his friend, in no uncertain terms, if he _ever_ breaks his little sister’s heart or even blinks at you the wrong way, he won’t hesitate to end him. Not that Castiel would ever knowingly hurt you.

Sensing the tension, gazing up from his computer, Sam shakes his head at the show and refocuses on the task at hand. “So get this…”

“Cas, car, _now_!” you interrupt. Raising your furious form upright from the table, nearly toppling your chair, you clasp a possessive palm around the angel’s wrist when he dares reach for the steaming mug of black liquid she gave him. He has _no_ idea the things he does to you. The things he makes you feel. You intend to show him. To make him understand. “We need to _talk_.”

Frozen by the avarice coloring your tone, he simply stares up at you, wide blues unblinking.

Sam swallows whatever he was trying to say, jaw hanging agape.

Dean lifts a brow and protectively covers his plate of bacon, side of extra bacon, in expectation of you snatching the seraph by the coat lapels and throwing him on the table to have your way with him then and there to show the simpering waitress precisely to whom he belongs.

Ignoring your brothers and anyone else who happens to be observing your jealousy-fueled fracas, darkly gleaming focus fixed on the unmoving seraph, you repeat, “ _Now_!”

Excepting a nervous mutely imploring flit of his gaze toward Dean inquiring what he should do, the angel remains motionless.

Snorting an exhaled fiery sigh. Letting go with a rough jostle of his sleeve, needing space to vent your frustration, you spin and storm toward the exit. Your stomping retreat is decidedly less sexy than the competition. The angel also has no clue how handsome he is or why you’re terrified someday he’ll realize you’re nobody special and leave. The bell of the door clamors, sharply banging the glass when you shove it open and disappear in the parking lot.

Cas pivots from your blustering exodus to look between Sam and Dean.

“Women, am I right?” Dean shrugs and picks at his plate.

Curling up the corner of his mouth, Sam rolls his eyes and upper body in exasperation over his brother’s apathetic attitude. Alighting his elbows on the table, he leans his lanky frame across the span to get unnecessarily nearer the angel whose uncanny sense of hearing could denote a pin drop across the din of the diner.

Being the mannerly thing to do, Cas reflexively mirrors the action.

Peering side to side, Sam speaks low, “Dude, she’s not talking about _talking_. She’s talking about-”

“-sex,” Dean finishes, matter-of-fact as he crunches a crisp piece of bacon. He earns an additional eye roll from his brother.

“ _Oh_ ,” the exclamation outlines in unspoken comprehension on the angel’s lips, precipitously keen regard directing toward the door.


End file.
